


out on the edge and i'm screaming your name like a fool at the top of my lungs

by Waistcoat35



Series: they slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered [10]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It's more likely than you think!! :), M/M, Minor Character Death, No that is not the actual plot of this fic im sorry, Richard? Finding Thomas' father and smashing his head in with a duckboard?, Thomas' dad was a dickhead okay, Unnamed - Freeform, once again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:53:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24724834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waistcoat35/pseuds/Waistcoat35
Summary: “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Richard Ellis
Series: they slipped briskly into an intimacy from which they never recovered [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772770
Comments: 5
Kudos: 92





	out on the edge and i'm screaming your name like a fool at the top of my lungs

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for implied/referenced childhood abuse. Again, a bit of an angsty one - sorry!

The house has been hushed since he arrived - like it's holding its breath, not in anticipation of Thomas, but _for_ him. Daisy had been in the midst of fixing a tray to take up to him when Richard had arrived at the servants' entrance, and he carries it now as he ascends the winding staircase. He knocks lightly on Thomas' door, but apart from a slight shuffling sound he hears nothing - not wanting to wake Thomas if he's asleep and taking the lack of protest as permission to go in, he eases the door open before stepping into the room.

The first thing he notices is the dark - there isn't a candle lit or a lamp on, even, and the curtains are drawn against the fading day. Thomas is a curled-up lump on the bed, facing away from Richard, and he only shifts slightly when Richard puts the tray down with a light _thunk_ on the dresser. 

"Thank you, Daisy," he murmurs, before curling a little further into himself, as if trying to shield himself from a potential conversation.

"Not Daisy," Richard hazards, before perching lightly on the edge of the bed. He isn't sure if a _darling_ will help or make him curl up even more, because sometimes kindness helps Thomas, but sometimes it just shatters him. He settles for a "hello, Thomas," but in a voice that's silk-soft, hoping it will do something to soothe. Thomas doesn't break, but he bends - curling up a little more. Richard isn't entirely sure what to do - normally he seems to be able to know just what to say, just what to do, or at least, Thomas _says_ so - but it's rare, very rare, that Thomas seems as fragile as this - and Richard is _terrified_ of shattering him. So he reverts to a standard template. "I'm sorry for your loss," he ventures.

It is, perhaps, not exactly the right thing to say. 

" _Sorry_ ," Thomas snorts, and it is uglier than any sound he normally makes, made so by the intention and derision behind it. "You're _sorry_ he's gone. Well. You'd be the only one in this room, I'll tell you that." Richard flinches, beginning to wonder if he's put his foot in it.

"I didn't say," he tries, "that I was sorry he's gone. After what you've told me about him, I don't think I could bring myself to mourn any misfortune that might go his way. I said I was sorry for your loss. I'm sorry that this is what you've had to go through. That this is something you've had to grieve." The other untenses at that, ever so slightly, and suddenly Richard finds himself with a lapful of Thomas, arms around Richard's waist, face buried in his lap as Thomas' shoulders shudder like a badly-built lean-to in a gale. 

"Sorry," he chokes, "sorry, m'sorry, I didn' mean - didn' mean to be like that, m'sorry I was horrible to you. Not to you, never to you - not anyone, but _never_ to you-" Richard's eyes widen in alarm, and this is one thing he is a little more seasoned to, as he puts one hand on a shaking shoulder, one at the nape of Thomas' neck where he strokes his thumb up and down in an attempt at soothing. 

"Hey," he murmurs, unable to refrain from sounding urgent but trying to round it off, soften it slightly, though it likely has the same effect as moss on concrete. "Hey, hey hey, no, Thomas, no, it's alright, darling." He bends over, the angle awkward, and presses a clumsy kiss to Thomas' hair. "I know. You're fine, I know, I know. Oh, Thomas." He knows Thomas hates it, in a way, afterwards - hates the vulnerability of it, the yellow sky and calm, bleak waters and bloodied flotsam of the aftermath of the hurricane. He hates being coddled - or, rather, hates feeling like he might need to be, and so he lines the rawness, the softness, the aching tender spots in his armour with spikes, as if he's trying to put pins in a pincushion sharp side up. But they're a long way from the aftermath yet, and so Richard gentles him, gives him the softness he won't give to himself, lets him flop there with throat bared and exposed underbelly and holds him as everything leaks out, cracks open. 

Once that part's done, Thomas is trembling, no doubt with the dried-up yet soggy, choked feeling that comes after such things, so Richard reaches over - not too far, after the muffled sound of protest that comes from Thomas when it seems like Richard's trying to get up again - and grabs the corner of the duvet, drags it over until Thomas is covered up to his shoulderblades. Richard pets and fusses, shushes for a few more minutes, until the last of it's died down. "Now, then," he murmurs, "what would you like to tell me about it." Thomas gives a wet sigh. 

"Well," he starts off, shaky, a colt fighting to stand, "y'know the big bit, obviously. Died on Sunday. Sister phoned, to say, though God knows how she found me." Richard nods, and then hums, not sure if Thomas can see, holds still as he shuffles in Richard's lap, props himself up on a shaky elbow and rests his forehead against Richard's torso, sighs tiredly. 

"I shouldn't be _like_ this," he says, and it turns into a keen. "The one thing I should've been able to trust I wouldn't be so pathetic about, and I can't even avoid flying off the handle over _that_." These aren't Thomas' words, now - they're too recited, too monotonous. It sounds like he's reading them from a script that he knows by heart, but hasn't looked back over for a few months. Richard knows who these words _have_ come from, and if they hadn't already been six feet under since Sunday he'd be ready to go and make them regret it. But for now, until he figures out how to tunnel down to Hell he'll have to make do with comforting Thomas. 

"It's not," he says softly. "I know it doesn't feel like it, not now, but it's _not_ pathetic. It's not. Because-"

"-because he was still my father, _at the end of the day_?" The tone indicates that Thomas has heard that one a hundred times, and he's not keen on hearing it again. 

"Actually," Richard continues, feeling something akin to encouragement stir at this glimpse of rebellion again from Thomas, "I was going to say - because whoever it is, whatever they've done, _however_ you feel, it's a lot to work through. Whether you still care for him or hate his guts or care or couldn't care less, you're still working through those feelings. Still - sorting everything out in that fast-paced, clever old head of yours." He taps the tip of one finger gently against the back of Thomas' head, and gets a soft huff by means of reply. "I've said before - we all do what we must to get by. And that's what you're doing. What you can. What you must. And personally," he adds, "if you do come to the conclusion that he was an evil old git-"

"Not s'posed to speak ill of the dead. That seems like some saying you'd go along with."

"If you _do_ decide that, I for one am not going to condemn you for it, just as I'm not going to think you stupid if that's not quite how you feel. You're allowed to feel however you feel about it, darling, I don't need to give you permission for that, nor does anyone else. If they act like you need it, send them to me. I'll sort it out."

Thomas sniffles, and it's almost a sodden laugh. "Makes it sound as if you're going to beat them up or something."

"Well," Richard says, mock consideringly, "I did box in my teens." He feels a shake of the head. 

"No need for all that, Mr Mighty." (How he loves those little phrases of his.) Richard smooths floppy bits of hair back from Thomas' forehead repeatedly. After a while, Thomas' eyes well up again, and though he presses his face back against Richard's shirt he tries to be more discreet about it than last time. Richard continues the hair-stroking in soft silence - the kind that isn't the absence of sound, but the presence of quiet.

"Not quite through yet?" He asks kindly, and Thomas shakes his head a little. 

"S'rry."

"No need, I'll say that as many times as you need to hear it. You never need to be sorry to me, Thomas." He pauses. "Unless you do something like take up arson and set my flat on fire, in which case I would rather appreciate an apology." He feels a swat at his arm, and then it's more silence for some time, until he himself breaks it again. "But, no, really - sometimes things like this still aren't done for a good while afterwards. If you need me, phone or write or - anything, really. You could take a milk train and turn up outside my door unannounced and I'd still let you in and see what the matter was."

"You'd have work."

"I'd bunk off." 

"No you wouldn't."

"I would, I'd just have to call Mr Wilson first."

"He'd say no."

"I'd tell him to stick it up his-"

"Mr _Ellis_ , where is this language coming from?" He smirks.

"You've turned me into a rebel, mayhaps."

Thomas leans up and brushes their noses together, the suggestion of a soon-to-be kiss. "It suits you."

Richard grins, pleased, and moves his arms to loop under Thomas' armpits and wrap securely around his torso. They shuffle about until Richard's leaning back against the right end of the headboard, Thomas lying on his stomach and draped over Richard, chin digging a little into his chest, their legs slotted together. Thomas tilts his head until it's resting sideways, though still on Richard's chest, and hums. "Thank you."

"No need to thank me any more than you need to apologise." Thomas groans.

"Stop being chivalrous when I'm thanking you." 

Richard rests his chin on the top of Thomas' head.

"No promises, darling. And - Thomas?"

"Yep?"

"I love you very much. And you deserve better than what you got from him."

"I know. Or at least - I think I might do. Sometimes."

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to kill another one of poor Richard's relatives off so soon, so instead I killed off Thomas' bellend of a dad, who Richard has been ready to go and fight since day one. I didn't want to dictate how Thomas should be feeling about him because I can't speak from experience so I didn't feel it'd be right, so that's why I chose to focus instead on the reassurance that Thomas is allowed to work through his feelings about it no matter what they are, and that it's valid to feel however he feels.


End file.
